


Soldier

by Ooft



Category: Elder Scrolls V: Skyrim
Genre: Aldmeri Dominion, Other, The Great War (Elder Scrolls)
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-08-09
Updated: 2020-08-09
Packaged: 2021-03-06 04:02:11
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 4
Words: 1,564
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25757047
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ooft/pseuds/Ooft
Summary: A journal kept by a soldier in the Great War. While he goes unnamed, many scholars believe they know the author. Despite their calls for a confession, they receive no response and the man who wrote it remains anonymous.Perhaps one day he will step forward and claim his long-lost story. Until then, the people of Skyrim will forget it and continue their lives, entirely unaware of the truly devastating impact the Great War had on Tamriel. They will cease to remember the story of an unnamed man who learnt and fought and loved and lost.Perhaps that is for the better.
Kudos: 1





	1. 3rd of First Seed, 4E 172

I’ve never written like this before. I suppose I never had reason to, but now it feels important. Of course, meditation is a better way of clearing my head, although now I don’t have an hour in the morning to sit and centre myself, so this will have to do. 

I don’t want to write about the war in here. I don’t know why. Maybe there’s a part of me that thinks it’ll stave the fear off. Maybe I’ll want to read back on this someday and not be reminded of it. Maybe I’m just tired of the whole thing already. 

I haven’t had to kill anyone yet, but it’s really only a matter of time, I know. I’ll be faced with an opponent I just can’t beat and I’ll have to kill them. I wonder how it’ll happen. 

I have good friends here, they keep me well. It could be because of my father. I like to think they genuinely enjoy my company and have no fear of me. They shouldn’t be afraid of me; I try to joke and tell them I don’t bite. All my attempts are in vain, they laugh like I’m holding a sword to their throat and they cease their seemingly endless chatter in my presence. I’d be angry about it if I could afford to be, but I need their trust, not just their fearful respect. 

My mother always told me I’d grow into the boots she gave me. I’ve outgrown them now. I’m not muscular, by any means, it will take time and patience. I can’t think of a thing that doesn’t, really. 

I’m just not ready to grow-up. 

My twenty-third Name Day was the other week, though I think I may have skipped a few years and gone straight to one hundred. While my body doesn’t ache with age, my mind does. I was always a serious child and now it seems to have manifested beyond my control, wisdom rearing its ugly head in every life-lesson I’ve experienced, and it’s as if there’s a new lesson to be learnt each day. I’ve become weary of it, almost unable to get myself out of bed some mornings. 

No more writing for today. The Captain calls my name, of course with that slight hint of fear they all say it with. 

They’ll grow out of it, as my mother would say. They’ll grow out of it. 


	2. 6th of First Seed, 4E 172

Drums echo in the distance, making the mountains sing with the voice of war. We march today, will stand as one in the sorrowful face of the Dominion. 

My body pulses in time with the beat of the drum, but my heart throbs sluggishly and my mind feels muddled. 

Years of learning the way of Kynareth, wasted. All thoughts of peace and healing are dispelled in the presence of my fellow soldiers; they pray instead to Arkay. Some whisper the names of their wives and children over their meagre breakfast, eyes dark with sleeplessness, the only light being a glitter of fear. Others, even some older than myself, seem eager to fight, eating and training and laughing with a gusto I could only ever have wished to muster. 

We march in an hour's time, and here I am, writing of the one thing I had originally not wanted to write of. I still don't want to, but it seems I don't have a choice anymore. 

It's strange how one can choose to enter war, but cannot choose to leave it. I wonder if this will all be worth it. 


	3. 10th of First Seed, 4E 172

Death carries no sentiment. A part of me wishes it did, that it would make it easier to kill, but it doesn't. The first enemy I slaughtered was an Altmer woman. We stood at the same height, I met her yellow eyes as I swung my sword. They still seemed to stare at me as her head rolled from her shoulders, blinking one last time before falling off and careening down the hill as if it were no more than a stone. I kicked her body away when it slumped toward me, flinging it back, armour and all. 

It disgusts me to write it, but the slaughter became much easier to handle after that. The sound of blood squelching beneath my feet became easier to ignore. The screams of dying soldiers faded to the roar of my heartbeat. The war cries of my fellow warriors blended with my own and we destroyed the Dominion Army. 

We rest in what used to be a small farming village. The smell of smoke still lingers in the air, though this village has been abandoned for over a week now. I rest in one of the less-destroyed bedrooms, a dagger and a stuffed bear at my side. 

_ To Elinia, love Ma and Da _ , is engraved into the dagger's hilt. It's such a small blade, designed for a child, one that can be grown out of but is good for practice and training, or perhaps carving a name into a tree. Lovingly made, the metal shaped so intricately and perfectly. 

_ Elinia, I have reached Morrowind. I saw this bear in a shop window and thought of you, _ a tag attached to the bear reads. I left the bear on the bed, but pocketed the dagger. Perhaps this 'Elinia' was lucky enough to escape the village before her people were murdered in cold blood. 

The other soldiers are asleep now, but I can't seem to do the same. Each time I close my eyes, I see home and feel sick to my stomach, longing for the time where I was happy in my mother's arms without a care in the world. 

One of the others spoke to me of his own accord today. He regards me with respect, but a muted one, not as if he is afraid of me. Admiration hides behind his brown lashes when he speaks. A quiet thing, he is, reserved and unwilling to offer his opinion in the presence of other men, perhaps cautious of their thoughts on him. The others avoid engaging him in conversation in a similar manner to how they avoid me, glancing at him from the sides of their eyes and hushing their brash voices. He's from Markarth, the accent makes it obvious, yet he speaks as if he is well-educated. 

We talked of his home. He seemed reluctant to admit to struggles with the Forsworn barbarians, although he was knowledgeable in the subject and offered sage ideas on how to rid the land of them. 

It was interesting, listening to the problems of the Holds. I've been so isolated from the world these past few years, I've no doubt Skyrim will be a completely different country when I finally return to Her. His stories indicate as much, anyway. 

Eventually he bid me goodnight and left the room, leaving me to my own devices. I'm curious as to what prompted him to come and see me. 

For now, I must try and get some rest. The damn elves may come attack us in the middle of the night, for all we know. 


	4. 11th of First Seed, 4E 172

Reinforcements are coming in from the north next week. We're to wait for them in this village. 

Battlements are being mounted as I write, hammers echoing in the hills and fields around us, no wind coming to sweep the sound away. Such is the nature of Kynareth, to remind us of how we've betrayed her. 

The man from Markarth sits with me again, though he does so in silence and pays me no attention, seemingly lost in his own thoughts. He asks passing soldiers for instruction, but doesn't receive any answers. That doesn't seem to deter him in the slightest and he just asks the next man, then the woman after that. A monotonous rumble. 

I go over plans for our future battles. It looks like we may have to prepare for large losses, since the land is crawling with Thalmor scum. 

The Markarth man's questions are finally answered when we're both called to help with the repairing of weapons. 

He sat at the grindstone and worked the swords against it as if he were born to do so, mending and sharpening them with ease. Nothing distracted him from his work, not even when he cut his fingers on one of his newly sharpened blades. Hand pressed hard against the cloth of his breeches, he continued to work, finishing everything as easily as if he had both of his hands available. 

After a few hours he'd finished. Silent, he came to help me at the workbench with the armour, straightening and sorting as I worked. At the sight of me hammering a dent from some steel armour, the man put a hand on my arm and stopped me, showing me how to do it properly, deft and calloused hands working the dent out in minutes. 

At dinner, the man came to sit with me. While we sat together, the other men gave us a wide berth, not even sitting at the tables next to ours. 

He didn't speak to me. We sat and ate in complete silence. All I could think about was home anyway, feeling sick in the stomach and wanting to go to bed. 

When we'd finished he took my plate and cleaned up, before leaving without a word. 

I'll have to thank him tomorrow. 


End file.
